Beach Walk
by Midori Hane
Summary: My mind seemed to be in a different state than my body, thinking of everything except what I should. It's that feeling that gets me continuously, that some things will never fade from my mind. Some memories are etched into the skin of my head, burned black by my own feelings. I'll always think of that instead of the important things right in front of me. [KuzuSouda, non-talent]


When I was smaller, I always hated reading books. At least when it came to those books that were supposed to tell some made-up story that always had to end well. It's unrealistic, isn't it? Trying to teach us that every story has a nice ending, and that it will turn out alright. Even if your wishes are fucking delusional. I can't stand some sugar-coated shit like that.

...but then again, what would a book with a bad ending feel like? Would it feel abrupt, as if it wasn't supposed to end? Would we be reading the book waiting for there to come a sequel, or an explanation that it turned out alright in the end? We are always thinking that it's going to be okay, our minds filled to the brim with stupid delusions. The truth is, sometimes there isn't a happy ending. "If it's not okay, it's not the end" - that's what a lot of people told me in the past. What would they say if my ending was bad? Would I be proud to have proven them wrong, or self-pitying because my fate had darker plans for me in particular?

When I was in first grade of elementary school, there was this kid. A nerdy looking dude, black hair and glasses even at that age. He would always get pushed around by other people. Of course, I didn't care. Rather, I thought that it was probably his fault. If you get shit, you either suck it up or beat the shit out of them; no need to get all fucking sad about it.

I don't remember his name. I barely even remember what he looked like. But one day, he walked up to me, asking if I wanted to play cards with him. Of course, being the person I am even to this day, I told him to fuck right off. I don't remember what I was doing at the time, neither do I remember what happened the rest of that day. All I can recall is that he started bawling and told the teacher on me. My response was that my dad was going to have both of their heads.

Now, stupid quarrels aside, I always wondered what happened to that guy. I couldn't help but imagine him having a nice ending. Maybe get himself a girlfriend, work on his grades, meet someone that would make him happy.

During those times, I didn't have a care for the world. Well, of course I still don't really give a shit, but it was different back then. I feel conflicted. I want to be a better person, but at the same time, the years of adolescence were the best years for me. I might have been a pathetic shit, sure, but people were there for me. My childhood had a pure-hearted feeling to it. I wasn't as dulled by family business and the thought of death as I am today. I felt like an actual kid, I could do the shit that the other people did. It's not that I can't do such things now, but I still feel..distant. It's like I can't adapt to the normality of society anymore. Do I like that feeling? Well…. I don't know. I really don't know.

To this day.. there's only one person that made me feel normal. One single person who I felt like I could do regular things with. There was no work involved, no kinds of ties by anything else but the fact that we were in the same class. And it's a fucking miracle I even managed to meet them, and had the luck of meeting them before. The last thing that I want to do is fuck it up. I've never been this scared of fucking it up before. But… I really don't know what I should do. It's so fucking stupid. And I don't know how to stop it. I'm sure, that if I would do the opposite of what people would expect of me, everything will turn to shit. So, to hold onto my dignity, my pride, and my brotherhood, I'll do everything in my power to suppress it. For their sake too.

It still hurts. Fucking hell, it hurts. But what does it matter? I'm used to that, am I not?


End file.
